The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  The scene was fresh in the prior's mind as, during one of the last days while carts were loaded and farewells taking place hourly, he summoned Thomas to his chamber. Within a very little time, unless the Abbey in London took the young monk, they also would say

  farewell—never to see each other again. While waiting for Thomas to appear, Father Felix went to a large chest near the altar and took from it a small coffer of boxwood, inlaid with silver and pearls, its heavy clasp fashioned in the form of a Tudor rose.

  At that moment Thomas arrived, obviously tired, yet solicitous and anxious to make the remaining few days as pleasant for the older man as possible. He was relieved to see Father Felix looking almost serene.

  "Thomas, I have left this final task to the very end. It's one of which I'm very proud and to which I've been very faithful and one to which I'm sure you'll be equally obedient. This is what I want to show you and then I want to tell you its story."

  Eagerly, with the quick enthusiasm of a child, he undid the rose clasp and took from the coffer a large ball of deep red velvet. He put the small bundle on the table so Thomas might see it. The monk's eyes widened, and he leaned forward. "But, Father, what is it?" He, too, was eager. The velvet glowed, its deeper hues reflected in the coffer's silver trim.

  "First, I want to tell you the story, Thomas. I'll try to remember it just as it was told to me. This small chest was given to me by Abbot Ambrose of the Franciscan Friars of Richmond Palace. Many months ago, the Friary was dissolved, and when it was known that all the possessions would be confiscated by the king, the abbot rode here to visit with me for several days. You may even remember." Thomas nodded. He did indeed remember. Abbot Ambrose, a distinguished Franciscan, had been Queen Catherine of Aragon's personal confessor. Catherine had spent much time working with the Friars whenever she was at Richmond and had favored them in many ways during the quarter century she was England's queen. The day of his arrival at Merton had been one of great excitement, and even the holy brothers had jostled one another to catch a glimpse of the queen's renowned confessor. Yes, Thomas remembered.

  "The abbot came here to deliver this to me," said Father Felix, gesturing at the coffer. "It was given to him by the queen when she was forced into exile. She felt her possessions might be taken from her—as I think a good many of them were. She wished to make certain this would be safe while she still had time to do so." With that the prior unfolded the velvet and smoothed it out so Thomas could see what it contained.

  It was small, and at first he didn't recognize what it was. Then he smiled broadly. It was the device of Catherine of Aragon—a good-sized clump of gold, fashioned into the shape of a pomegranate. A fruit particularly Spanish, obviously the work of a sophisticated Spanish artisan, it was exquisitely made. As Father Felix placed it in the palm of his thin and shaking hand, Thomas was entranced to see the stem glitter as the light caught the facets of a multitude of tiny diamonds, emeralds and rubies. The stem's tip contained a large single diamond almost the size of his smallest fingernail.

  The monk was enchanted and held out his hand for the ornament. Both men were silent, admiring the delicate, fragile workmanship.

  "The queen must have been very sad to leave it." Thomas could almost sense her loss at parting with such a precious object.

  "I'm sure she was," Father Felix replied, "but she was wise to do so. She was very attached to the treasure. Besides its priceless value, it had also belonged to her mother, the great Isabelle of Castile. She told Abbot Ambrose when she was very young, her mother had told her the pomegranate had helped her drive the Moors from Spain. During that time the tent in which her youngest child—who became our Queen Catherine—was staying caught on fire. Yet she was saved. Her mother believed it was because the pomegranate, along with the family's jewels, was in Catherine's tent. It had come down to her as a family treasure, and Isabelle was sure it possessed magical properties. Catherine said she didn't know of any magic— I'm sure if it had possessed any, she didn't feel it had helped her during all her troubles! But because it had belonged to her mother, she treasured it greatly. She told the abbot, It's a little part of Spain I've allowed myself to keep in a country I've come to love.'"

  Thomas was very stirred. He'd grown up during the years when Catherine reigned and was one of thousands of Englishmen holding loving memories of the Spanish queen who'd been so ruthlessly tossed aside. And this glorious relic in his hand had belonged to her, had been loved and cherished by her. He suddenly felt very close to the dead queen, and his hand closed around the ornament. He almost hated to give it up.

  "What are you going to do with it?" Thomas asked. "Surely we can't let this go to the king! Wouldn't someone at Westminster Abbey keep it safe and hidden until times are better?"

  "I'm too old, Thomas, to take that risk." Father Felix shook his

  head. "I'm sure to be searched before I enter there, simply as a protection for those who are good enough to give me a home. I feel my responsibility in this regard heavily and cannot, with any conscience at all, turn this over to the king's representatives."

  "Then what must you do with it?" Thomas' hand still held the lovely relic, and his sensitive features were concerned. "Is there no safe place for it?"

  "I think it will be safe now." The prior smiled and waited until the import of his words sank in. "Yes, I think it's safe now."

  "Father! You mean I'm to have it?" Thomas was excited, yet his voice was edged with doubt. "What will I do with it—my own future is so uncertain." The prior relaxed in his chair and said gently, "I hope to persuade the abbot at Westminster to have you accompany me there, Thomas. You are young and still untried, it is true. But I flatter myself—God forgive my sin!—that I have a bit of influence. I can't take the jewel there, but you could. No one will search a simple brother of the dissolved priory of Merton who happens to be calling at the Abbey on a visit. But once you're there, you can tell the abbot the story I've just told you and ask if there's a safe place in the Abbey for the queen's relic."

  "Oh, I will!" Thomas gazed at the glittering pomegranate in his hand once more, and his features brightened. "Oh, indeed, I will ask, Father! The Abbey will be the safest place in the world! I am so honored—so honored." He smiled at the prior with affection. "Believe me, I'll take care of it."

  "I know you will, Thomas." Father Felix rose, his relief clear in his face and voice. "It's decided then. You'll go to London tomorrow and ask the abbot. We'll return the relic to its hiding place until we have his answer. I'm glad we've found it a safe home."

  Gently, Thomas wrapped the pomegranate in the red velvet, placed it in the coffer and set it in the chest. At the door, he turned and asked the prior, "Did the queen have a name for the bauble, Father? When something is that old . . ."

  "Why, yes, Thomas, now that you mention it." The prior gazed out the window, as if attempting to remember. "She called it the Lure. I don't know why. I don't even think Abbot Ambrose knew the reason. But it seems a long time back in the family history it had been considered a lure' . . . one for good. Certainly Isabelle felt it had lured her to drive the Moors from Spain. Queen Catherine put it more simply. It was, for her, a lure that represented Spain,

  her former home and all that was good remembered from her childhood. She felt it would be safe with the Franciscans. Only when the abbot knew the Friary was to be dissolved did he make haste to leave it here with me." Father Felix smiled wanly. "I'm sure he thought we were so insignificant no one would bother us and the Lure would be safe."

  Thomas' face was shining as the prior finished his story; he was tremendously moved. The Queen would be happy to know what a safe abode her Lure has found, thought Father Felix. He's in love with the beauty of Queen Catherine's golden pomegranate, and he'll defend it with his life. He himself felt relieved and gladdened. Out of the whole sorry mess of the dissolution, at least there was one priceless object that would not be destroyed.

  On the following morning Thomas set out before daybreak, arriving
in London before the sun was at its highest. Riding past the old Tabard Inn on the High Street of Southwark, he realized he hadn't been in London for more than a year. He was stimulated by the noise, the smells and sounds of the City. It would be very difficult living at the Abbey after the rural simplicity of Cuddington and Merton.

  The procession of travelers, merchants, wagons and cattle, all waiting for admission to the bridge, jostled Thomas' horse, and he rode outside the crowd, noting the Abbey of Bermondsey set among the fields now stripped of their harvest. The sun glinted on the red-tiled roof of the venerable structure and cast its cloister into deep shade. Straight ahead was the handsome Church of St. Mary's Overy, somewhat overshadowed by the vast pile of Winchester House, the home of the Bishop of Winchester. Should the Westminster abbot have no place for him, Thomas reasoned, these other houses might receive him.

  Suddenly, the gate opened, and there was much good-natured jostling as everyone surged onto the bridge. It was dark and cramped and, Thomas could see, no more than twenty feet at its widest, for houses and shops were built along its edges. Sun shone into the interiors, and he rode slowly so he might see inside.

  The traffic thinned as he approached the magnificent Chapel of St. Thomas a Becket, square in the middle of the bridge. Since Becket was now unpopular with the king and reformers, it had been renamed the Chapel of Our Lady. Through the pointed arched windows, Thomas saw the elegant columns and even caught a

  glimpse of a vividly painted altar. He felt oddly touched—surely no city in Europe could rival London? What other metropolis would cause a chapel to be built in the middle of a busy bridge and wisely rename it when its patron saint became unpopular?

  Passing Becket's chapel, he saw a break in the buildings and looked out to the river—the magnificent highway of London—with its hundreds of boats, barges and wherries plying the waters upstream, downstream and across to each bank. White swans dodged the swinging oars, and on the banks of a marshy area near the Tower, children waded in the reeds. Along the river lay the decayed pile of the ancient Savoy Palace, and then, in jewellike procession, were the majestic mansions that had formerly belonged to the Church sees: Exeter, Worcester, Salisbury. All had been taken by the king and given to noblemen, who had further enhanced the grounds with statuary and handsome water stairs.

  Thomas clattered off the bridge and made hurriedly for Cheap-side, for he must see the abbot before the noon service. The street was at its busiest, and servants were abroad early for the best choice of produce. On past Old Jewry and the Eleanor Cross toward St. Paul's, its noble spire thrusting heavenward. Here the crowd was thickest, and Thomas was dismayed at the number of beggars, the maimed, diseased and poor who cried for alms. He'd barely ridden into the Strand when someone called his name. "Thomas! Thomas!"

  The monk turned at the sound. Just ahead, opposite Durham House, was an imposing structure of cream-colored stone. It was a quadrangular building with a handsome double doorway banded by columns and pilasters on ornate pedestals. The walls were half covered with ivy that also grew around the large mullioned windows, fashionably draped in heavy velvets. The wide steps were enclosed by a gracefully wrought balustrade of strong black ironwork, and in its center was the crest of the Cuddington family. Thomas was amazed to see Sir Richard Cuddington standing on the steps. Quickly he rode forward.

  "Thomas! What a grand surprise!" Sir Richard was dressed in rich town clothes such as Thomas had not seen before, not even at Sunday church services. "What brings you to London? Will you come inside and meet my brother?" As he spoke, he directed the monk toward a servant, who took his horse, and in a moment Thomas was ushered through the front door.

  "It's fine to see you, Thomas—we've not set eyes on you since the

  day—" There was a moment's silence as both remembered the day of the church's destruction. "I came to London on business for several days. Thomas, you must stay too. You can return with usl You've not been here before? Well, what do you think of Cudding-ton House?"

  Thomas murmured his appreciation. The room they entered was furnished as befitted one of James Cuddington's quality. It was spacious and bright, for an unusual number of windows let in fight and air. Sideboards of silver, pewter and Venetian glass reflected their light and gleamed on the high polish of an ancient cupboard, on the long refectory table and straight-backed chairs. Sir Richard explained that his younger brother lived here with his twelve-year-old son since his wife had died some years before. He preferred the city to country life and had been happy with his legacy as he, Richard, had been with his. At the thought of the inheritance no longer his, his face darkened. Thinking to distract him, Thomas explained he'd come to ask if the Abbey might accept him as they'd offered refuge to Father Felix.

  "I'm sure they'll take you, Thomas. Perhaps my brother can even help. James has many friends in London and at court." He poured a glass of wine and handed it to the monk. "You'll stay with us here? My brother will be delighted—there's plenty of room. Chloe will be so happy to see you!"

  Thomas drank his wine slowly, realizing that surge of anticipation could not be attributed to its contents. He listened as Sir Richard explained that as evidence of their departure from Surrey became more noticeable—as tapestries were removed from walls and carpets aired and packed—Chloe had wandered from room to room, depressed and sad. Lady Elizabeth had insisted the girl accompany her father to London, where, happily, her spirits had picked up. Walking to the door, the monk told Sir Richard he must see the abbot before the noon services, but he'd be happy to accept the hospitality of Cuddington House later in the day. He left for the Abbey, feeling more lighthearted than he had in weeks.

  James Cuddington sat in front of the fire in the gracious room looking out on the busy Strand. It was a luxury that fire—at midday —but it kept the river's damp from the furnishings. At nightfall, he insisted that myriad candles also be lit, and often he'd seen passersby on the outside stop and gaze into the comfortable mellow

  interior. He loved the house his father had built, against everyone's advice, on the unfashionable northern rim of the Strand. Opposite was Durham House which the king had taken from the Bishop of Durham and in which, at the moment, the three-year-old Princess Elizabeth, daughter of the executed Anne Boleyn, was temporarily lodged. Its large, untidy courtyard backed onto the Strand, as did most of the great houses along the river, and for this reason, building on the northern side had been largely neglected. But his father had done so, and now Cuddington House was something of a showplace with its fields and meadows running into open country in the rear. James remembered his father's quiet pride the day the house was complete. It must be nearly sixteen years now, for it was the year the king and Queen Catherine had gone to the Field of Cloth of Gold and they'd all gathered on the steps outside to watch their departure.

  His reverie was interrupted by a soft footstep behind him. "Uncle James?"

  "Come in, child, come in." He rose to meet his niece. "I still can't believe it's you, my girl. I wonder—can this be the young one who lived in the woods and was never off a horse?" He put an affectionate arm about Chloe and kissed her on the forehead. She is a tremendous beauty, he thought, at the same time wondering what made her so outstanding. No one feature was that extraordinary; he knew many court beauties with more perfect features. But the combination of that incredible silver-blond hair of her father's with the dark eyes and lashes of her mother was unusual, to say the least. She had the perfect complexion of one reared in good country air and had resorted to no artifice, he was sure. She was the image of his brother, whom he'd always considered one of the handsomest of men. But the same features and coloring in Chloe had produced a very different creature: wholly feminine in spite of the wide mouth and the deep cleft in her strong, square chin. Her figure was perfect. She was the type that would age beautifully, gracefully, with no hint of stoutness or thickening. All this beauty, combined with an air of fragile sensitivity, something he couldn't immediately understand, only pique
d his curiosity to know her better.

  "Uncle James, Richard has something to show you."

  His son, Richard, named for Chloe's father, grinned impishly up at his father, who tousled his bright-red hair. "I hope this young man isn't making a nuisance of himself."

  Quickly, Chloe sprang to her cousin's defense. "Not at all, Uncle James—he's really no trouble," she protested. "I enjoy his company —unless you think I'm spoiling him."

  James laughed wryly. "My dear, I'm afraid the servants have already done that. They've mollycoddled him since the day he was born. They mean well, but it's been a problem, the lad having no mother . . . What's this, Richard? You're painting again?" Richard thrust a sketch at his father. "Very presentable, lad, very presentable indeed. What do you think of it, Chloe?" Not waiting for an answer: "This is only a pastime, lad, not an occupation."

  James Cuddington was immensely suspicious of anything artistic where his son was concerned. Manners, one's success with women and at the gaming tables, as well as one's skill in the tiltyard and during the hunt, were far more important at court and in London society. "Your nose is in a book or a paint box too much, Richard," he said. Painting was hardly a gentleman's occupation, and his pained attitude said more bluntly than words that he'd like to wash his hands of all such activity. "Eh, let's see what you have?"

  It was a curious little painting. Richard had placed a chair square in the middle of Cuddington House's large formal Hall which fronted directly on the Strand. It showed Chloe, seated in the chair, her hands folded in her lap. She was gazing intently at the artist. Sunlight from the window cast an almost whitish aureole about her hair and played along the chair's back. There were vague outlines of other pieces of furniture; a section of the handsome Turkey carpet was evident. Through the front window, the boy had shown a small corner of Durham House, concentrating more fully on the beauty of the Thames beyond. Even with all the background detail, however, the main focus remained the quiet figure in the chair.